Imperative
by Reichenbach
Summary: Since Jack joined the crew of the TARDIS, the Doctor is being eaten alive by something. He quickly discovers that there is something absolutely imperative that he must do in order to rectify the situation. slight smut with Nine and Rose
1. Chapter 1

Title: Imperative (1/??)

Author: moi

Rating: R (gets a little smutty later on)

Characters: Rose, Nine, Jack

Spoilers: Series One

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. They're like little dolls you can dress up and play with, but I always put my toys back when I'm done.

Archive: Feel free, just drop me a line so I know (my ego is like that)

Beta: Beta'd by the long-suffering Rosesbud. Encouragement provided by darkbunnyrabbit

A/N: Was going to hold off on this, but the folks at T&C pointed out there's a real lack of fic lately, and I'm trying to rectify that ;) And no, the Doctor doesn't want to **really** kill Mickey. He's just, y'know, going through some stuff.

Summary: Since Jack joined the crew of the TARDIS, the Doctor is being eaten alive by something. He quickly discovers that there is something absolutely imperative that he must do in order to rectify the situation.

XYZ

"Rose…I'm trying to resonate concrete."

Before his eyes could betray him, he turned back to the concrete wall in question. The Doctor was a man full of many dark and swirling emotions—or at least he liked to think he was. Sometimes, however, he had to admit just how simplistic of a nature he possessed. He'd gone from frustration with his current situation to full of hate the moment she said 'doesn't the universe implode or something, if you "dance.'"

White-hot blinding hate. He hated Mickey Smith, the idiot who'd been clutching Rose's knees, using pathetic mewling and whining to keep her from something she obviously wanted—the immature needy git. He hated Adam—and not just because that particular immature needy git had also turned out to be stupider than Mickey Smith (who had a wrong feeling about him—like he didn't belong in this time and place, which made the situation all the more confusing). But now he hated Jack Harkness.

It was OK to hate Jack Harkness, the Doctor decided, as he stared into the pale blue glow spreading out against the cement wall. First of all, 'Captain Jack' (why did she need to call him that?) had just vanished, secondly, Jack was the cause of their current predicament, and third, he was an idiot for letting this happen.

And Jack Harkness had dared to make Rose's eyes light up like that. Dared to make her…what? He didn't know. But when Rose's eyes sparkled, she got it in her head to…

What?

Imply he couldn't dance.

XYZ

Dancing was the root of all evil. That was the only conclusion he could come to. One'd think it was money, but it wasn't money. It was dancing.

And he'd been perfectly fine, until his awkward, lanky frame decided to remember how to move. NO, even that had been alright. Until he'd dipped her, and his hand was pressed to the small of her back, his hip brushing against hers.

It was just a hip.

Sometimes, people's hips happened to brush the hips of fellow travelers. When this was the case, it couldn't be anything other than accidental. It couldn't be anything other than innocent. Even if dancing had been involved.

Shoulders slumped, he hunched further in the jump chair, squinting in the dim green light of the console at the device he was attempting to fix. It would be easier to do if he could concentrate. It would be easier if he could stop thinking about dancing, and if he could stop thinking about hips, body parts brushing, hands on smooth, curved backs…

What the hell was he thinking about? He didn't even know. He had an exposed wire in one hand and a circuit that needed to be repaired in the other and neither was going to get themselves done, if he didn't stop thinking about dancing.

Dancing! What the hell…

He felt odd, like something wasn't quite right. His balance was off (though it seemed he'd finally found it, with the dancing, there at the end), his thoughts were racing to a few hours before, dancing in front of the console, and the feeling he had when he refused to let Jack cut in—the rush of looking right into Jack's eyes as he dipped her. Jack didn't get to dance with Rose. Only the Doctor got to—

Sighing in frustration, he put the part on the bench beside him, then stared up at the ceiling. "I'm developing a strange monomania," he informed his ship. Yes, he always had an unfair number of thoughts about Rose—he had since they met. Was Rose ok with this? Was Rose comfortable in her room? Did Rose like cheese sandwiches?

He supposed it was only fair, to a degree—she was his whole world now. With his planet and people gone, with their presence no longer in his head, what else did he have? There was no one else to talk to, no other presence in his life to fill the horrible silences. There was just Rose, beaming, bubbling and alive. Making it ok just by mere act of existing in his presence. It was only natural that he should grow attached.

She was the first person he'd actually spoken to—held a real conversation with—since the war. She questioned him, drew him out of himself, made him answer. All things he was grateful for, though he'd never be able to admit it. Of course he was worried about what she thought, whether she was happy out here in the universe, that her tea wasn't over-steeped.

That wasn't monomania. That was just concern for the only good thing in his world right now—a spirited, inquisitive girl who somehow managed to tolerate him—the most loathsome, disagreeable character in the universe. Yes, he was worried about her tea, dammit.

His palms rubbed at his stubbled hair in frustration. This feeling of being lost, adrift—it just wasn't working out for him.

The monomania was his sudden obsession with…not just her. And by her, he meant her needs, her thoughts, her feelings, her opinions, her preferences, her choices…all of the things that made Rose Tyler, well, Rose Tyler. It was his sudden obsession with…HER. With hips brushing and hands on smalls of backs…

He'd break out into bad poetry at any moment. If that happened, he'd just open the front door and hurl himself into the Time Vortex—there'd be nothing left for him if that happened.

Trying once again to repair the regulator, self-loathing twisting his lips in a sneer, he groaned in frustration with himself, and with his obsession with dancing.

XYZ

He was sitting alone again. Rose and Jack were clamouring away in the kitchen, happily. Something about baked goods curing the ills of the world or some other nonsense involving confectionary sugar and Rose licking batter from large wooden spoons in a manner he deemed wholly unable to continue watching. It didn't seem to bother either of them that they were just eating sticky goo out of the bowl and no actual baking seemed to be transpiring.

Captain Jack was laughing, trying to steal the spoon from Rose while she let out squeals of pleasure-or who knew what. Jack could just go straight to hell for that.

The Doctor was in the library, pretending to read a book. Mostly he was staring at the row of shelves in front of him, trying not to think of that scarf. He knew a thing or two about them, and he'd never seen a scarf look so… something. Something—he didn't know. But it had looked that way on Rose. And the stupid skirt, with the stupid tights, and that cherry smelling lip balm…

Then she'd had to wear the same damned outfit to the Slitheen homeworld. He'd tried to explain that the temperature would be different, bla bla bla, but she hadn't seen the need to change. Those bright brown eyes and those blonde plaits…

He despised Rose Tyler her adorableness (was that even a word?). He cursed her round cheeks, blushing in the cold, he cursed her chocolaty eyes, and he most certainly cursed that smile she'd given him when talking about her passport.

Oh yeah, and he was back to wanting Mickey Smith dead.

Perhaps he could cross his own time line and push Ricky the Idiot out in front of an Auton firing squad. He hoped karma or, well, something caught up with that boy, and he died. Repeatedly.

Possibly his own damned fault—he'd been watching the monitors, invading her private moments. He'd had some terribly lame excuse for Jack, but really he just wanted to watch her fingers tug the bright fuzzy scarf up and down from her chin a little more. Which was just sick. But at least he acknowledged that.

Ricky the Idiot had suggested they go to a hotel. THAT was enough to make him want to march out of the ship and set the boy on fire.

Of course, then she says yes. Which was enough to make him want to set himself on fire.

Couldn't he just go back to worrying about how she took her tea? Wasn't that obsession enough for one old Time Lord?

He slammed the book shut with a sigh, still staring at the shelves. Apparently it wasn't. NO. He had to go off and be obsessed with things he had no business being obsessed with.

He knew the exact moment it had started, too. It wasn't Rose asking why all the great looking ones had to do that. It wasn't her implying he wasn't male in every sense of the word. Five little words that had somehow condemned him. I'm trying to resonate concrete.

Was there some sort of power in those words? Had he cast some spell over himself that had caused this to move from obsession with tea to obsession with scarves? He'd been living with this sense of her being his entire world (it was only natural, he told himself again—she and the TARDIS were really all he had in the universe) for nearly a year. Nearly a year of fretting over whether she'd like where they were going, worrying about when she'd get bored with this life and want to leave, contemplating exactly which type of tea and in what quantity would best suit the anticipated mood of the day.

While he would have mocked such thoughts a hundred or five hundred years ago, right now they seemed perfectly normal. Normal and preferable to this burning inside of him, this fretting over flesh whenever the back of her hand brushed his, worrying about hips pressed against hips if Jack smiled at her too warmly and contemplating how best to kill Jack and make it look like an accident, so that their party of three could return to a party of two, and Universe-willing, put some sort of lid on the thing consuming him alive.

He'd blame the war.

It didn't make him want to drown Jack in his own pudding any less, but it helped him live with himself.

Deciding he'd go mad if he had to listen to their chasing each other about the galley any more, he left the library, walking down and away, as far as he could get from the main floors. There had to be some storage room, somewhere, that he could invest himself in cleaning. Something so far away that he couldn't hear her over-sugared, too-caffeinated cries of delight—something so secluded he could avoid this feeling for just a bit longer.

They'd go to Feudal Japan tomorrow. Men with swords was just the thing to get the blood pumping.

No, wait. That's the last thing he—

To distract him. That's what he'd meant. Distract him, them. Whatever.

This was not happening to him. He refused to let it.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

He knew it was wrong, but it didn't stop him. There was just some detached part of his brain that knew he'd regret this quite thoroughly approximately thirty seconds after it was over.

For now, he just couldn't bring himself to care.

Not when his lips had just trailed up her stomach, across her ribs and were now working over the soft skin at the base of her breast. They were delicious handfuls--so fleshy and round. Everything breasts should be (which was odd, because he'd never had much of an opinion of breasts before now, and suddenly he was an expert). The nipples were the same tone as her lips, even though he couldn't see them right because she was biting them in their need to be silent.

Jack would never let him live this down.

What the hell did he care? Jack could be dead five minutes after he began regretting this. That made things easier to cope with. He could just kill Jack later on. But what was happening now was far too important. Rose's whimpering moans were the entire purpose of his being right now.

His brain simply concentrated on not shuddering or crying out as he entered her, and it took every bit of his being. The long-forgotten lounge smelled of chocolate chips and her, and it made it so hard to think an entire thought about anything. Her hands trailing along his ribs made it impossible to remember why he'd hate himself—how could he hate himself when she moved with him like that?

In fact, he was running short on self loathing at the moment. Every shallow, silent breath either of them drew erased just a bit more of the things inside of him that made him remember why this was a bad thing. How could this be a bad thing?

It was inevitable. It was meant to be. How else could she have found him, twelve levels down in a game room that hadn't been used in four hundred years? She'd brought him warm goodies, wondering if he was mad at her in some way, that he hadn't stuck around when they'd started cooking. It was inevitable—required, even, that he should show her that he wasn't angry—in any way.

He was just explaining, in the only way he knew how, just how he could never be angry with her. She was Rose Tyler, and that put her at just shy the level of a goddess in his eyes. Of course, a goddess wouldn't be letting him…

Her face scrunched as a silent cry erupted in a rush of air from Rose.

A handful of thrusts later, he'd pressed his mouth to her neck to muffle his own shuddering moan as the anxiety, regret and guilt rushed out of him in one glorious flow and he knew he'd done what he needed to do. What was necessary—what was dictated and inevitable.

Seconds passed and he lay on top of her, unable to move. More than thirty. And he still didn't feel regret or self-loathing. He'd danced and the universe hadn't imploded. Better still, he done what he'd been put here to do by some celestial chess player.

All was right in the universe.

XYZ

He woke alone on the leather sofa in the long-forgotten game room, the instructions for Ovrext Chess crushed between his chest and the cushions, the box for the game somehow under his head.

His head pounded and his mouth tasted like last night's dinner.

The Doctor was also—sadly—fully clothed.

Of course, upon further analysis of his situation, he saw that a change of trousers would be in order. He was far too old for wet dreams.

And a vivid one at that. He could still smell the salty-sweet of her sweat, feel the skin of her neck upon his lips. Very almost feel her--

Sitting up, he looked around the room, trying to get his bearings. He'd been in here last night, trying to tidy up, when he'd found the box for the chess set that had never been touched. He'd taken out the instructions, a rather lengthy document with very tiny text, and had begun to read. The next thing he knew…

The question was, could he get to his room, or the wardrobe, without encountering one of his companions? He wasn't sure which would be worse—Jack or Rose. Of course, with his luck, it'd be both.

Tossing the papers on the pool table, he walked out the door, groaning at his own patheticness. This wasn't happening to him, he told himself again—scolded himself repeatedly for letting his mind wander down such a path. He'd never, in all of his years of traveling been inclined to… dance with a companion. The thought never crossed his mind. Why would he? They were traveling companions. One didn't do that sort of thing with them.

Not that it was done at all in his culture. Too primitive and emotional for Time Lords. This of course meant he'd been absolutely required, by the rebellion of youth, to dabble with 'dancing.' So he'd certainly danced in his time. He'd just never--not like this. With his body controlling his mind, not the other way around.

This wasn't right, this feeling…this intense longing. He couldn't remember ever wanting anything or anyone so badly. THIS was the monomania he'd told the ship about earlier—not scarves or tights or lipgloss. And it just wasn't natural. After a change of clothes, his next stop was going to be to the infirmary to figure out just what the bloody hell was happening to him.

XYZ

Properly bathed and dressed, the Doctor headed back towards the control room. He'd set a course, get them into some trouble, possibly resulting in Jack's death or maiming, and then he'd be able to forget about all of this. This…feeling. What did a Time Lord need with it? What did a Time Lord need with Dancing at all, for that matter?

There was a physical reaction to the fleeting thought of hips brushing against hips and the Doctor stopped about a corridor away from the control room. What the hell?

There had to be something wrong. There just had to be.

The medical lab held no insight. He was a perfectly happy and healthy Gallifreyan, according to the instruments. No alien viruses, no outside psychic attacks that he couldn't sense. He was just a randy old bastard who was having inappropriate dreams about nineteen year old traveling companions. That was all. Situation normal.

He could just throw himself out an airlock and end it all now. That'd certainly be easier than living with himself and this yearning deep in his core.

It would also save him from having to listen to what was happening in his control room. Spacing Jack wouldn't stop him from feeling as he did, but it would be very satisfying.

"Aww yeah, baby!" The Time Agent's voice echoed down the long hallway. "Getting' it done fer Captain Jack."

Rose's squeal of excitement practically pierced the Doctor's ear drums and the need to murder turned inward toward self-harm.

Jack's laughter followed quickly on the heels of Rose's scream dying away. "You like that, don't you! You naughty, naughty--" Jack grunted.

He could make it a murder-suicide. That would work.

Which would just be a damned shame, because he'd spent his entire time in the shower this morning planning on how to make Jack's death look like a horrible accident. Of course, he'd scrapped those plans as soon as he started thinking about how he'd have to comfort Rose, and his wild imagination began turning to all the many, many ways he wanted to comfort her. Nudity and hips brushing other hips might have been involved. He couldn't quite remember…he'd reached out and turned the hot water off right then, leaving him standing in a stream of liquid a few degrees above freezing.

"Jack—shhh…he's going to hear…"

Ok, so now he was stuck between two perfectly good ideas--making it look like an accident, and the maudlin murder-suicide.

Another grunt from Harkness. "Oh come on--he'll wanna help me take care of business. Unless he's a prude, and he thinks that only one person at a time can--"

The ship bucked, and the Doctor was thrown against the cold hard wall. He groaned, rubbing where his skull had come in contact with the iron buttress and was immediately thrown against the other wall. Then the ship came to a full and complete stop, leaving him face first on the floor.

First of all--the universe hated him. Second of all--well, that certainly had taken care of the problem with his trousers. It was a bit difficult to have those kinds of problems when you had brain damage.

Getting to his feet, the Doctor clomped angrily down the corridor, prepared to tear anyone and everyone apart. They were doing things in the control room of his ship, causing it to fall out of space and time, and he just wouldn't stand for it. He wouldn't stand for them hurting his ship, and he wouldn't stand for Jack doing anything with Rose. She was his, dammit.

About four feet outside the control room, he stopped, putting a hand on the wall dragging in ragged breaths. Rose wasn't his. Rose wasn't his no matter what demented thing was happening in his screwed-up head to make him think that not only she was, but that copulation was only solution to his current dilemma. Rose was her own woman; Rose belonged to no one; not Jack, not Ricky the Idiot, and certainly not the Doctor. And most importantly, Rose would laugh at him if she knew what he was thinking.

Standing up straight, he took one last deep breath and proceeded into the control room.

Rose saw him and looked away, blushing hard. Jack just stood there with hands on his hips, grinning like a bloody damned fool.

Surprisingly, they were both dressed, neither looking even the least bit out of sorts. "What the hell are you doing to my ship?"

Rose blushed even more, her eyes veiled behind thick, dark eyelashes. He had to remind himself that his head hurt and that Jack was molesting his ship, otherwise he'd think about those lashes against her cheeks and the way she was biting her lip?

His lack of ability to concentrate was going to get them all killed.

Owning up to his part in this mess, Jack raised a hand. "My bad. See, Rose said we were out of milk, and I just figured we'd stop somewhere and have milk before you were even out and about and then we'd be off on our merry way. Or I'd land at the one quickie mart on planet Earth being run by aliens and you'd have to rescue us--either way, we were getting bored waiting for you."

Ancient Egyptians used to break through the sinus cavity with wire hooks and pull the brains out through the nasal passage of those they were going to embalm. He could do that to Jack right now, just for fun. He even had a bit of wire in one of his toolboxes under the console. "You know, there're things that need taken care of in this ship than aren't accessible from the control room. Now get away from the console and quit molesting my ship."

He pushed past Jack and began flipping switches, trying to correct whatever the hell that baboon had done to the only thing he had left of Gallifrey. Damned bloody Gallifrey. He ran away from there, and managed to somehow be exiled from there even after he'd fled…now they were all gone. It was awful damned hard to hate all those stuffy old politico bastards if they were dead. The silence in his head was like a gaping wound sometimes.

Shoulders slumping, he sighed, shaking his head. He was going mad. That was what the problem was. He was losing what tiny bit of sanity he had left and Jack was driving him to it, every time he looked at Rose. He felt like he should be snarling and asserting his position as alpha male of the pack.

Which was just wrong and sick.

The console beeped, indicating they were well off their mark of Earth. "Great job, 'Captain,' we're going to crash into the moon. Who the hell said you could fly this thing on your own, anyway? I certainly didn't!"

Jack nudged Rose. "Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the TARDIS this morning, didn't he?"

The Doctor spun around, trying to hold the low growl back in his throat. "Get out of my control room! Now! Before you kill us all."

Rose began creeping out behind Jack, and the Doctor quickly amended his declaration. "Not you!" Rose got to stay. He wasn't mad at her. Of course, if she stayed and Jack left, he'd be alone with her, and his thoughts of dancing…. "Never mind! You think you know so much, Jack Harkness, YOU land this ship. On Earth. In one piece. I am leaving."

Knowing just how petulant and childish he was being, the Doctor clomped with heavy feet past them and out of the control room, back towards the library. He still had a book on Erim Fkartian fossils to finish reading.

He wanted to tell himself that this wasn't happening, but it was. It was happening, and he had no idea what the hell to do about it.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

The heavy wooden door to the library creaked open behind him. "What is it, Jack?" the Doctor asked without even looking. He tilted his head downward a bit more, trying to appear as though he was intensely interested in fossil reclamation in the sacred interior wetlands of a planet he'd never been to. It was better than talking about this.

Jack chuckled, closing the door. "What, Time Lords have eyes in the back of their heads, now?"

The Doctor's eyes snapped up from the page. "Who ever said I was a Time Lord?"

Arms folded across his chest, Jack walked around the overstuffed chair and leaned

against the stack of shelves, facing the Doctor. "Oh please. Trans-dimensional space and time ships don't just grow on trees, you know."

Thumb holding his page, the Doctor closed the leather book. "Do you expect me to apologise for being angry that you've deflowered my ship and stolen her innocence?"

That damned grin spread across the former Time Agent's near-perfect action hero-esque features, and the Doctor wanted to remove that smile—with a bit of C4, or one of the canisters of Nitro Nine still in the weapons stores. Ace would have slugged Captain Jack Harkness in the gut just for looking at her wrong—he liked that about her. Ok, so he'd been trying to teach the kid other ways of dealing with problems that didn't involve violence only to have her resolve every problem with violence, but he'd since come to the conclusion that sometimes, violence WAS the answer. You could say he'd grown as a person since then.

Like, take now, for instance. If he clamped down on Jack's ear and tore diagonally hard enough, he could rip the man's entire face off. Just because. "I shouldn't have yelled at you. In front of Rose."

Jack held up a finger, wagging it at the Doctor. "Ahh. See, that's almost an apology. And I'm sorry I made a pass at your ship in order to get her to drop out of the Vortex." He held out a hand. "Friends?"

Still looking at the hand, the Doctor didn't reach out to shake it. He'd never really had many friends. Acquaintances a plenty. But even some of his travelling companions did not fall into that friend category. Rose was his best mate, if he had to give that title to anyone. A chavvy peroxide queen with a deranged mother from a twenty-first century council flat was his best friend in the known and unknown universe.

It was a little different, but he could accept it. It was only natural, right? Natural that she should be his best mate. She'd been the first person he'd travelled with after the war. The first person he'd let into his home. It was normal to be so attached. Wasn't it?

It was. It had to be. Otherwise he was going even crazier than he thought he was.

So what was Jack to him?

Pulling the book to his chest, the Doctor continued to stare at Jack's hand. " I'm not touchin' that. I've got no idea where it's been."

Jack sighed. "You know, you're a hard man to get a fix on, Doc."

Frowning, the Doctor glared at Jack.

Holding up a hand defensively, the younger man shook his head. "No, no. Don't be like that. I just mean—ok, you didn't like me when we met. That's cool (gosh, I like that word—it's a great word. It was on the cover of one of Rose's magazines). Anyway, you wouldn't let me dance with Rose, that's fine. I can take a hint. But I didn't think we had any problems. You let me work on the ship with you. We work pretty well together out in the field, as it were. And both of us have a similar vested interest in looking out for Rose. Heck, I thought we were doing pretty good—you'd even unlaxed enough to let me flirt with you, and you almost flirted back. Which is all great. I thought we were, like, the best crew ever. I thought--"

Something else almost worked its way out of Jack's mouth, and the Doctor had a feeling that he knew what it was. He'd been there a time or two himself. "You do have a home here, Jack. I'm not going to toss you out on your ear." Though I might kill you, the Doctor added silently. For some reason though, right now, he could tolerate Jack. Just as long as Rose didn't factor in any way, into the conversation. "I'm just—I have a few things going on. Things you wouldn't understand about."

Folding his arms over his chest, Jack shifted his head a bit, almost looking down his nose at the Doctor. "Try me."

Oh, the Doctor was quite sure Jack wouldn't understand. What Jack wanted, Jack went after.

Wanting was the first part of the problem. Time Lords didn't want things. Well, at least these things. Jack wouldn't be able to comprehend the shock this was placing on his system. "It's some… personal things. Things very specific to my kind." Oh there. See, that was brilliant. That was the politest 'you wouldn't understand' brush-off he'd managed in possibly three hundred years, and there was no one else around to witness it.

Crossing one ankle over the other, Jack contemplated the Doctor for a moment, examining carefully the book that was held up almost as a barrier between them. "I think I have a pretty good sense of what it is. I can help you with it if you want, Doc." He grinned. "I won't even make ya do anything in return."

The Doctor snapped to his feet, still clutching the book. He made his way to the rear of the sofa, trying to put distance between himself and his latest companion. "Thanks, but no-thanks, Jack." Without regard for page number, he tossed the stuffy leather-bound book on the oversized desk in the corner, then began digging through the stacks, a thought suddenly entering his head.

It would be nice to have a scientific explanation. He could deal with those. Love, obsession—these were all qualitative things. He needed something more tangible and concrete—something he could chart and graph and wrap his tortured mind around.

Behind him, he could hear Jack shifting, but not leaving. He almost said something when the captain interrupted his mental mewling. "You know, Doc, I'm just trying to be a pal and help you out. Now, I think I have a pretty good idea as to what you're up against, and that's ok. You're practically a wolf marking its territory lately."

The Doctor spun around, glaring at the other man. Jack just couldn't keep his mouth shut, could he? They got along just fine, as long as he didn't go dragging Rose into the conversation. Then it was all with wanting to kill Jack and chop him into little pieces, and…

Oh shit.

Jack was right. If Jack was able to see it… If Jack was able to see it, then there was no point in denying it to himself any more. As much fun as a good old-fashioned bit of denial was, the Doctor knew he was deeply and tragically doomed if Jack knew what his problem was.

Pulling a book off the shelf nearest his shoulder, he flipped through the pages quickly, finding the chapter he was looking for. Jack, damn him, had given the Doctor an idea about his current…biological issue.

And there was Jack, still grinning back at him like an idiot. "Aw come on, Doc, like it ain't written all over you. You look like you're going to explode. You're a guy in need, and I'm here to help. No strings attached."

Shoulders falling as he turned back toward the bookshelf, the Doctor tried not to seethe too visibly. He skimmed the chapter in question, solidifying his perception of his current predicament. Of all the things to befall him… "Jack, thanks, but no thanks. My current predicament cannot be solved by what you're thinking of."

Jack gave him that cheeky grin, the one that flashed those perfect teeth and made the dimple on his chin stand out just a bit more. "Oh come on, everything'll be solved. I'm just that good."

Clenching his eyes shut, the Doctor let his forehead fall upon the edge of the shelf, resting it against the cool metal. "Jack—not for me. I need something a little more… female for my current predicament."

And now Jack was laughing at him. Great. A huge, jovial belly laugh. "Yeah, I know. You're completely in love with Rose. I was gonna help you get the girl, Doc. NO idea what YOU thought I wanted to do."

Turning slightly, he glanced over at Jack, trying to swallow down the bile that was quickly rising in his throat. "This has nothing to do with love."

Yes, Jack Harkness was mocking him, and his…pain. "Sometimes a little lust can lead to a lotta love, and sometimes a little love can lead to a lotta lust. Which category are you falling into, Doctor?"

Still practically clinging to the book case for protection, the Doctor slammed the side of his head against the shelf repeatedly. "This has nothing to do with LUST, EITHER, Harkness." That wasn't exactly true. "This is strictly…biology."

Why did Jack have to be so bloody amused? Why did he have to have that twinkle in his light blue eyes, that look he gave Rose when he was flirting with her? "Yes, yes, there's that too. Chemistry, biology. Psychology, physiology… all kinds of science stuff. But eventually it all comes down to animal instinct takin' over, and gettin' down and dirty."

Sighing, the Doctor turned a bit more, until his back was pressed against the books. "Jack—call it whatever you want. Chemistry, biology. I'm the last of my kind." He let that sink in. "I'm the last of my kind—a male. Cooped up on a ship with a, well, fully compatible female. Lets put it that way. Travelling with her, day in and day out. It isn't chemistry, so much as…biological imperative." He clenched his eyes shut and swallowed, trying to bite back the pain of admission.

And Jack was silent. Finally, FINALLY, something Jack didn't have a clever double-edged answer for.

After a few deep breaths, the Doctor finally gathered himself together enough to slide the book back on the shelf. Eventually he had to bite the bullet and look at his companion. "So there you have it. A million years of evolution and learning, and this is what my people are reduced to."

Hands on his hips, Jack rolled his eyes and turned away from the Doctor. Shaking his head, he casually walked toward the door of the library.

The Doctor wiped a hand over his face. "Jack—don't tell her--"

Captain Harkness turned back slowly toward him. "Man—you think I'm stupid, don't you?"

Don't ask me to answer that, the Doctor thought to himself.

Jack wagged a finger at him. "I said I'd help you get the girl. Now, how unsexy is telling her you want to propagate the species with her? NO wait, that is kinda hot. But since you're you, she'll think you mean it."

"I DO mean it," the Doctor pointed out, annoyed.

Why was Jack shaking his head again? "Whatever. But if she thinks you mean it, it's completely unsexy. The antithesis of hotness. Do you get what I'm sayin?"

The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief. He might not like it, but it seemed like he and Jack were on the same page regarding his… biological matter.

Walking around the sofa, Jack slapped the Doctor on the back. "I'll just tell her you're a sad and pathetic Time Lord that's hiding behind the whole 'last of my kind, must reproduce for the sake of the universe' thing because you're too chicken shit to tell her how you really feel."

THE END.


	4. Chapter 4

"…And in conclusion, if you don't, you're a damned fool."

Sitting at the empty, barren wooden desk in the library, the Doctor sighed, pouring more amber liquid into a tumbler, trying to ignore the room's other occupant. But it was so damned hard. Especially when Jack was being Jack. "And I thank you for that observation. And NO, I WILL NOT. Now do me a favour and shut it."

Maybe he could push Jack out an airlock on their way to the console room. Maybe he could slam Jack's head repeatedly in the drawer until it snapped off at the neck and fell, rumbling and echoing into the cavernous hanging file drawer, where he could lock it, toss the key out an airlock and forget about it. Well, he'd have to do something with the body, of course. He could push the body and the key out the airlock. Or feed the body to a carnivorous tulip in the gardens two floors levels down. Jack just brought those sort of feelings out in him.

That aside, he liked the bloke.

"And an idiot. Have I mentioned how you're an idiot? God. She's like… oh Doctor, then she bats her eyes," Jack paused and demonstrated, a little intoxicated himself. "And she's like…can I helllllp you fix the TAAAAARDIS? Then she bends over to hand you a wrench, and her funbags are right in your face," he illustrated gleefully, holding his palms at eye-level. "And you just take it and look away, and you're like…boobs? What're those? Ugh. She is NOT wearing those skirts to impress ME. Doesn't matter how many times I stick my tongue down her throat, she's only got eyes for ONE time traveller. And trust me, I tried. You're an idiot because you keep acting like you don't notice that she's giving you the subtle hints. But you're an idiot, so you might not be noticing them. Since the TARDIS doesn't do it for you, let me translate Human Girl for you—'oh Doctor, take me now!' She couldn't be any more obvious if she was saying she was going to your bedroom to get naked, and to meet her there in twenty."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "I think your brain has been pickled by hormones and you're inventing subtext in relationships where there simply is none." Of course… Romana had flat said that to him once, and he'd simply asked her why she'd want to do such a thing? His room was a bit drafty, wouldn't she be cold?

He hated Jack and all of Jack's ancestors and all of Jack's future progeny and descendants. A lot.

Comfortably ensconced in a squishy chair, Jack paused in his tirade. "Ok, so you have issues with relationships and intimacy, and whatever. I don't care. You've got some needs that aren't being met, and you keep insisting they're needs that I can't fill, which I think is a tad insulting—I am pretty damned good at the medicinal lay, but oh, it hasta be a girl. It hasta be Rose. But you're not in love with her or anything, oh no. This is all biological. Ok, so it's biological. Which brings me back to my previous point. That's the beauty of the fuck buddy system…"

At which point, for the sake of what was left of his dignity (and sanity), he tuned Jack out. Lifting the glass to his lips, he contemplated what his life had come to. He was drinking again. Jack did that to him. Well, not Jack. Rose did that to him. Ok, not Rose. Or Jack. Jack TALKING about Rose did that to him. And Jack wasn't talking about Rose, so much as talking about the Doctor and Rose. Not the Doctor, in addition to Rose. The Doctor and Rose, as if they were, or should be some single entity.

Of course, he wouldn't mind if his hips brushed her hips and he just so happened to…

See? This was why he needed to kill Jack. "You're still not getting it," he grumbled, interrupting Jack's latest tangent on the benefits of having a 'buddy.' Rassilon, did he hate that term. "This is not about 'like' or 'love.'"

Jack was sitting in his favourite leather chair, feet crossed and propped up on the arm of his second favourite chair, which had somehow ended up leaving the Doctor sitting at the stodgy old desk in his least favourite wooden seat, a high-backed thing he'd been suffering with since his first incarnation, back when he thought such things were a good idea. "So you're saying you don't like Rose."

They'd been going in circles for two days about this. "This isn't about 'like' or 'love.' I keep telling you that. Like and love do not enter the equation for my kind. Let me rephrase—there is no equation for my kind. Usually. This sort of thing…isn't heard of."

It somehow managed to come back to how he had to do everything in his youth that was forbidden, taboo, or just not done by his people. It accounted for that whole past 'sewing of wild oats' thing. So he knew the mechanics of what they were talking about. It was the rest of this that was entirely foreign to his people.

Hormones. What the hell did he need with them? "This is about Rose being a human female. You're a smart boy, Jack. What do you know about humans and inter-species relations?" Oh Jack should know everything about that, shouldn't he? Jack was a one-man, inter-species Welcome Wagon. Nice to see a new face in this part of space. Want to dance?

Taking a sip of his own drink, Jack let the tumbler rest on the arm of the chair he was in, making the picture of a man far too relaxed and at ease with the world. "That reproductive-wise, humans are the species most compatible with, well, just about every other race out there. Even those weird cactus slime aliens that reproduce by--"

"Yes, Jack, thank you very much," the Doctor interrupted before the former Time Agent could go any further. "And my body knows this. Separate from any sort of intelligent thought on my part, and oh how that rankles, my less intelligent parts know this and are seeking to propagate the species. It is not about like or love."

Jack's pale blue eyes that usually held such mischief and joy glared at him, betrayed something else. He was obviously annoyed and possibly angry that the Doctor was not subscribing to his world view. "Which is where the fuck buddies thing comes in."

Shoulders slumping, the Doctor's head fell to his chest. "Jack, maybe that's your modus operandi, but I'll not use Rose like that. Simply because my body tells me it wants something, I don't need to give in. That's a weakness for…lower species."

Uncrossing his feet, Jack put one of them on the floor and leaned forward a bit. "And yet, there you are. And it's not using Rose. You can't use the willing."

The lower being grinned, flashing those perfect white teeth and the Doctor clenched and unclenched his free hand repeatedly, trying to swallow down the urge to kill. It would just make more work for himself in the end, there was all that trouble of cleaning up after the murder, and making up some excuse to Rose about the whole thing. "She is not—I'm not even going to--" he sighed. "Just don't go there."

Putting his other foot on the ground, Jack leaned forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees. "Ok, so, you keep resisting the primal urges of us lower creatures. That's fine. But it brings us back to like and love." He held up a hand. "And before you say it's not about that, we just put aside the whole propagating the species thing. If we remove from the equation your ardent desire to make Rose scream for God and mean you, then that leaves us with like and-or love that you will not act upon in such a way as to make the girl's toes curl."

Turning in the chair, the Doctor looked away from the room's other occupant. Leave it to Jack to make him blush. HIM. BLUSH. And that's what it had to be, with his cheeks burning like that, and his ears stinging so badly it was almost painful. "Jack…" But that hadn't sounded whiny. Now he was a blushing whining Time Lord that wanted to make his young, impressionable travelling companion scream for God and mean him…

Pathetic. Beyond pathetic. Sad in a way that was possibly unfathomable to lower races. Not to mention entirely unbecoming. It was juvenile, this sudden hormonal...thing. He was far too old for Time Lord Puberty and a sudden and complete obsession with hips brushing against hips and…dancing. Did Jack have to rub his nose in it?

Using the opportunity to wipe a bunch of dust from the edge of the shelf just behind the desk, he heard Jack shifting behind him. "Look, I said we were taking that out of the equation. No fuck buddies for the Doctor, he's too smart for that. Do you like Rose?"

He wiped the grey particles off of his fingers and onto his jeans, then brushed that away from the material at his knee. It'd just end up back in the air and back on the books, but it gave him something to do and didn't require him to look at the man who was grilling him as if he were a criminal. "Would I be travelling with Rose if I didn't like her?" It was a stupid question, really. He tried to spend as little time as possible with people he didn't like. Call him crazy. Of course, that was probably why Jack was still alive after all the different types of hell he'd been dishing since he'd figured out the Doctor's problem. "Yes, you nitwit. I like Rose."

"And you like spending time with her?"

The Doctor knew he was being lead in to something, so he turned back around to look Jack in the eye practically daring him to do it. "Obviously."

Jack was back to sitting with his feet on the arm of the other chair, slouched a bit and his head resting against a cushion. He was looking down his nose at the Doctor, judging him.

Rolling his eyes, the Doctor finished the remainder of his glass, shifting around uncomfortably in the silence. "Look, she's a clever girl. Saved both of our lives more than once."

Nodding, Jack rested his glass on his leg, looking like a man with no problems. It was infuriating. "And she's smart, and she's funny. Don't act like I don't hear you two laughing over every little thing. And she puts up with you. That's got to win her browning points right there."

…And the Doctor could see where this was circling back around to. "She's my best mate. And she says I'm hers. Can't we just leave it at that?"

Shrugging, Jack got up, snagging the bottle from the corner of the desk and pulling off the lid and refilling his glass. "See, that's exactly what I'm getting at. You like her. She's your best friend. Nothing wrong with that."

"And it's only natural," the Doctor pointed out forcefully, practically tearing the half-full clear carved crystal decanter out of Jack's hand, filling his own glass nearly to the rim. Jack made him drink. That's why he did it. "She's clever and she's fun and…" just about all I have left in the universe, the Doctor almost confessed. Well, except for his ship. But the TARDIS wasn't a hand to hold, and it certainly wouldn't keep him warm at night.

He really needed to stop that line of thought before it even started. That would only lead to trouble. Rose was…Rose. In some ways, she asked everything of him. Like when she stood up to him, standing between his weapon and the Dalek. She asked him to rethink his thousand-year-old view of the world. But in other ways, she asked nothing of him. She did not pry, she did not demand anything emotionally from him that he was incapable of giving.

In that respect, she was the perfect companion. Tegan was his poster child for needy companions. She was always trying to pry something out of him, using the old guilt technique that he'd dragged her off when she knew nothing about him. Even Adric was looking for positive reinforcement constantly. Peri, who knew what the hell she had wanted…no, wait. When looking at his past with these new…hormone coloured glasses, he suddenly had a very good idea what Peri had wanted. Which was a tad frightening, considering how…colourful and bulbous he'd been back then.

Romana too, now that he thought about it. She should have been his ideal companion, she was the closest to being his intellectual equal, after all (so sorry to her memory, but he graduated higher in his class, which was a near-miraculous feat considering that he did not test well). But she'd always been poking and prodding him in some direction he couldn't understand. Again with someone asking something of him that he could not give.

Ace had been a nice safe relationship. She was a bright, slightly dysfunctional pyromaniac teenager in need of direction, and he had happened to be quite fond of filling that professor role that she had thrust him into. Oh she'd been a right pain when she'd wanted to be, but they'd gotten along amiably. They weren't friends, though. Not the way he and Rose were. Rose laughed at his jokes. Ace laughed at HIM.

Damnit. He could run through the list of companions that he had liked, perhaps loved in the way he was capable of loving people. He'd enjoyed their company, had been sad when they'd parted ways, but he'd never quite had the comfort level that he'd had with Rose. It wasn't that he'd torn down that wall (a barrier which was probably higher now than it ever was before), it was that he wasn't being asked to. And that made all the difference in the universe.

Jack just didn't understand that. What he and Rose had… he was not going to muck up with this…biological aberration that he was being forced to suffer through.

It was only natural, he kept telling himself. She was Rose, and that summed it up exactly. He didn't tell her to quit Ricky the Idiot, she didn't ask him about the Time Lords. Perfect relationship. "She keeps me honest," he finished up quietly, taking a long draw from the glass.

Rose did that, questioned him, made him rethink his position when necessary. It was a wholly important job, in a universe where his people weren't around to stop him, should he ever go too far. Or at least annoy him into less flamboyant subversive behavior. He never realised the unique burden of being the only being in the universe with the types of powers his people possessed. He wasn't sure he believed in fate, but it was a bit of a serendipitous blessing that Rose had come into his life when she had, just after the war, and before he could destroy space and time too badly.

Only natural he should be attached. Completely and utterly…natural. And not his fault. Psychologically speaking, she was a prime candidate to be the object of his… affection? Fixation? Hormones aside, it was natural that she should be his best mate. There. That was the natural part.

So why did Jack have to keep going on about this? Why did he have to interrupt the Doctor's efforts to dull his senses (all of them) and contemplate his lousy bit of luck?

Well, because he was Jack. And Jack was constantly asking for it. He never knew just how close to death he walked on a daily basis, especially when he insisted upon bringing up the current subject matter.

And once again, Jack found a way to bring himself one step closer to Decapitation By Filing Cabinet. "Ok. So you like her, you're friends, she keeps you honest, she saves your life…" that was it, right there. That unwitting honesty. It made the Doctor want to just... "And even though she's your 'best mate,' you're not, under any circumstances what so ever EVER going to mate with her, because that's just… BASE. So we don't have to worry about that. Which leaves me with one last question. Do you love her?"

The desk drawers were empty in this old clunker. Well, except for the bottle of ink and the old hard-tipped pen in the middle drawer. The ink was unnecessary (well, he was sure he could use it in the whole staging it to look like an accident thing. Hunt for Red October—brilliant book) but he could use the pen to give Jack a frontal lobotomy. Horrible calligraphy accident, Rose. Don't look. Here, I'll protect you…

He sat up in the chair, causing it to creak like the dried out floorboards in a house of horrors. "Jack, can you just give it a rest? I'm quite aware of my situation, and I'm not going to muddle up the whole situation by mixing personal feelings with biological imperatives or vice versa. So, if you're done drinking my alcohol, I'd really like to get back to trying to figure out why the TARDIS refuses to go to thirteenth century Japan, because I really had my hearts set on it. Alright?" A perfectly reasonable and logical argument for why Jack should mind his own damned business.

Bottoming up the glass, Jack gulped the rest of the booze, shaking it so the last few drops clinging to the sides would drip into his mouth. "All done. And come on—you would love me less if I weren't in your business every three minutes." Jack was doing that cheeky grin thing he seemed so good at. It was equal parts charming, and 'why're we letting him live again?'

Plugging the bottle back up, the Doctor rose from the most uncomfortable chair on the ship and held out a hand for Jack to give him the glass, making it clear the captain was being dismissed.

Seeing that the Doctor's threshold for being told what to do about Rose had been passed for the evening, Jack handed over his tumbler casually then stuffed his hands into his pockets.

As the former Time Agent began wandering toward the door, an evil half-smile raised one cheek and those ice-blue eyes were back to twinkling with mischief. Whatever it was, the Doctor was sure he wouldn't like it. "Oh, by the way. I already talked to Rose about this."

Yeah, it was a mistake letting him live this long, the Doctor concluded as he felt the blood drain from his face. "You what?"

Flashing his pearly whites, Jack laughed. "She said she's always ready and willing to help out a friend in need."

Before the Doctor could lunge over the desk and strangle the life out of him, Jack chuckled and ran out the door.

Collapsing into the unforgiving chair, all the air rushed out of the Doctor's lungs. Why didn't someone just kill him now? Still…Well, that was certainly one burden lifted from him.

Jack's last statement left him open to start thinking bigger, grander and more emotionally fulfilling, because he no longer felt obliged to make the man's death look like an accident.

THE END?


	5. Chapter 5

They couldn't just do what he wanted. He wanted to go to feudal Japan. Not because he wanted to, really, but because his magnificent time ship refused to leave the Vortex. Obviously the ship was out to get him. There was no other explanation for it—all females of all species were out to get him, personally. Not all men—Jack seemed to have no problem getting along with the ship, or any other female for that matter. All of the opposite sex in every time and place had it in for the Doctor and only the Doctor.

Well, he didn't know about all other females out there in the universe, he was stuck in the bloody Vortex. But the females in the ship (ship included), seemed to sense his agitation and were incessantly heaping layer upon layer of additional abuse.

The man-eating tulips had snapped at him when he'd fed them this morning (he knew he should have sent Jack to perform that particular monthly chore, either with the customary trolley of meat, or with his own self as the meal offering), the Ailby mice had laid their eggs in his bottom drawer, sliming all over his jumpers, leaving him wearing the only one left—yesterday's. Then to add to his misery the TARDIS had changed the rooms around to spite him, and the laundry room was still missing, so he'd be wearing this pea green jumper indefinitely.

And Rose…

Well, she was being Rose. Wasn't that torture enough for one Time Lord?

They hadn't broached the topic of just what she and Jack had discussed regarding his current…issue. In fact, when they were dealing with the drippy kettle this morning, she hadn't given any indication what so ever that anything at all had changed in their relationship.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Jack had only said what he'd said to make the vein on the Doctor's forehead throb. If that was the case—well done, objective achieved.

It was a damned shame—he had liked that kettle. It must have been a female kettle, not that he made a habit of anthropomorphising kitchen items, but really. He was seeing a trend, here. The stupid thing, just to spite him, had spontaneously sprung a leak on the bottom, spraying all over the gas burner, making it shoot orange flames and forcing steam up and around the failing talisman of domesticity.

Rose had pulled the leaking kettle away from the flame and he'd automatically reached for the knob to turn the burner off then began sopping up the mess with the towel she tossed him after dumping the water into the sink—well, more like dropping it halfway through dumping, causing at least two or three cups worth to end up all over her clothes.

It had seemed so normal, working together to solve a problem. It had also made him a little sick and a bit randy—the situation had been way too domestic.

But anyway—that was done and over-with. He still hadn't had any damned tea, coffee, hot cocoa or any other substance even remotely promising to bring some sort of relief to his addled mind and Rose had not changed in any discernable way. She'd laughed off the kettle problem and had gone to change out of her shirt that was now wet from the midsection down.

Jack was steering clear of him, which wasn't surprising. That whole part where the Doctor might murder him in cold blood in the hallway, by bludgeoning him to death with the end of the sonic screwdriver, seemed to be all the incentive the former Time Agent needed to steer clear of the angry Time Lord.

Hiding away in the second power conversion room, the Doctor cleared away a bunch of greasy dust from one of the belts. At one point the converter had no moving parts, but it had been replaced with so many non-standard elements over the years that it now resembled a milling machine more than a vortex conversion unit.

He didn't want to bludgeon Jack with his sonic screwdriver any more. He wanted to find a good old-fashioned brass candlestick holder. That would be fun. Those pointy feet on the bottom could tear into Jack's pretty-boy face. And kind of… rip it off.

All of his thoughts about killing Jack had revolved around messing up his face lately. Every time he closed his eyes, he either saw the bastard's smarmy grin, or Rose. In that wet t-shirt. Hanging off of her breasts, like—

Swearing, he looked down at the slice he'd just dealt his hand on the sharp, thin metallic belt. Great. Not only was it dusty and greasy, but bleeding as well.

At least it gave him something else to think about.

Because really, how much could his mind possibly think about that one single thing? Without concentrating very hard? That was the part that bothered him most, really—the ideas just flittered there, without any preempting on his part. And it was distracting. He actually found himself stopping what he was doing, when he thought of the wet shirt.

How the hell did Jack accomplish anything? Ever?

He supposed he should hate Jack for that too.

Maybe they should visit Rose's mum. That would certainly kill these urges. Because really—Jackie Tyler could probably put even Jack Harkness off dancing.

But then Rose would want to do laundry, and she'd be running around the flat with half-folded underthings, not caring one iota that the Doctor was watching the washing and folding ritual of clothing articles that he really ought not be seeing.

Why was this so bloody complicated? Why did his best friend need to be someone…

Like Rose?

Like…a girl. With gloss-shellacked lips, hair he could just wrap his hands through and…breasts.

That damned bloody wet shirt hanging off of her like--

"Oh my god, what did you do to yourself?"

He winced, realising he hadn't been distracted at all, if anything, slicing his hand open had made him think of Rose MORE.

Rose grabbed his hand, wiping some of the dirt away with her thumb, which only made it bleed worse. "You can't stay out of trouble for a minute, can you?" Looking around her, she saw nothing to staunch the flow of blood—only a box of tools, more greasy dust clumps, and a crate of spare parts. With a sigh, she tugged her t-shirt up over her hips.

The Doctor gasped, wondering what form of madness this was, until she used the edge of her dark blue shirt to press against the wound. "Rose--" he wanted to tell her it was unnecessary, or something. But he kept staring at her bare stomach.

She gave him a mischievous smile and simply shook her head knowingly. "Little soap and water, the shirt'll be fine. And if not, you'll just have to buy me a new one." Letting out a small 'ha ha ha' sort of laugh, she pulled the cloth away, inspecting the wound. "Seriously, you're going to need stitches. What were you doing?"

Mouth having gone a little dry, the Doctor licked his lips before responding. Why was her stomach so…naked? Did she realise it was naked? "Uh—cleaning the belt. Um. Yeah." Oh he was so very clever, wasn't he? So eloquent and coherent and thoughtful… He blinked a few times, managing to draw his eyes away from her midsection. Her skin looked so peachy and, well, edible. Did she know that, too? "I just need to clean it. The wound won't heal on it's own until it's flushed." Ahh—the triumph of the will over—y'know. Dancing. Dancing in his mind. With Rose Tyler and her naked—

He pulled his hand away suddenly, causing a sharp, clarifying pain to jab up his arm. "I'm fine, it's fine. I'm fine." Clasping his other hand over it, the Doctor looked away. If he didn't try to meet her eyes, he could hold it together. "How'd you find me?"

Rose grabbed his wrist, and it sent jolts through him—and they weren't of pain. Of course, it was coming to a point very quickly where the pleasure of longing would turn into agony, if it went on much longer. It was too much to ask that he could send her away now, and just be left to his hiding.

Careful of the slice in his skin, Rose brushed away more sticky wet grime before pressing her shirt to the wound again. "Dunno. Jack sent me to Supply Seven for more of those cute little sprocket thingies. I thought this was the supply room. Guess not. Come on, standing around isn't going to help this, so stop trying to be tough about it."

He hated that she knew him like that. He was also annoyed that the ship could officially now be considered to be in on the conspiracy against him. She'd rearranged the rooms and had deposited Rose, quite literally, on his doorstep. "I'm not trying to be tough, I'm quite tough about it. It's deep, but if I clean it out, it'll close on it's own. Superior physiology, and all that."

She smiled indulgently, like she'd pat him on the head, if her hands weren't busy. "Uhh huh. Well, it's not gonna get cleaned out in here."

XYZ

This was THE WORST place to be doing this.

Well, there were probably worse places. In a sewer maybe. That couldn't be very sanitary. But Rose's bathroom was quite possibly the worst place to be clearing all the gunk and grime out of his wound. And what an idiot—cutting his hand on a belt because he was thinking about Rose Tyler's breasts. Could he be any stupider?

They were surrounded by a light, almost springy coloured purple marble walls laced with squiggling trails of deep green. The counter surrounding the sink was a pinkish stainless steel and nearly covered in hair and makeup products. Why would she spend so much time with curling irons and mascara, when she would no doubt end up dripping slime and running through a rainforest before the end of the day? It just seemed illogical.

But when were women ever logical?

He winced as she pulled a particularly disgusting bit of greasy dust from the middle of the slice that ran from below his thumb all the way to his small finger before shoving his hand back under the running water.

She was going on about how he probably would keep thinking he was a tough guy up until the point where he bled to death all alone in some cubby in the TARDIS, leaving her by herself in space with Jack for all eternity, trying to avoid his roaming eyes and hands, and why would he even think of doing such a thing to her?

But all he could think about were how close his hand was to her—what had Jack called them? Fun bags. Crude term. But he just wanted to reach out and…

"Are you even listening to me?"

She whacked his arm with the washcloth and his eyes snapped up from her chest toward her face. "Completely," he promised without thinking.

Her lips did that adorable little pout thing. When the hell had adorable entered his vocabulary?

Panic clutched at his stomach. He was becoming someone he didn't know—someone who used words like adorable and cute and worried about the scent of a bottle blonde nineteen year old's lipbalm. Which was an interesting sort of tangerine kind of smell today. He supposed it would taste kind of like fruit punch…

He was ill. This was an illness and he needed to find a cure.

One that didn't involve making her scream for God and mean him.

She was still talking. The light over the sink was reflecting off those ripe fruity lips, making him want to just…

Fingers snapped in front of his face. "Seriously. I'm going to go get Jack if you can't pay attention to me."

"I always pay attention to you," he announced indignantly.

Rose looked down at his hand, which was still dripping blood, even if it had slowed considerably. "Right. I asked if you had a first aid kit on this ship. You stared at my mouth and licked your lips three times. How much blood did you lose?"

Unable to resist the urge, he licked his lips again. "Not nearly enough."

One hand on his chest, she pushed him until he began pedaling backwards. His calves caught on something and he was shoved into a sitting position on the toilet lid. She pressed the washcloth to the wound, trying to staunch the remainder of the blood flow. "I've only had scrapes and bruises as a kid for mum to treat, a real cut's probably more than I can handle. Especially when you're acting all funny."

She tried to put his hand over the cloth, but he panicked and grabbed her arm. "Wait, Rose, don't go. You're doing your breast--" his mouth instantly shut. "I mean—not breasts. You have breasts."

Rose's eyes grew wide and she took a step back from him. "Uhh huh. I'm getting Captain Jack because you're not making sense."

There had to be a hole he could crawl into around here. He needed to just slither on in, pull the rock over his head, and die. "No—Jack doesn't need to know about--"

Her laugh cut him off. Great. She was laughing AT him now. "That I have breasts? You're very observant, Doctor."

The Doctor shook his head fiercely. "No. Jack doesn't need to know that I'm—I'm obviously very medically ill, and, and…" Oh hell. He was falling apart. He WAS sick. Just not in the way that Rose thought. He was finally losing it. Not only did he sound like a child, but he was rambling on in a way totally foreign to his usual methods of rambling. Just look at him! He was sitting in some girly bathroom that smelled like chamomile and jasmine (like tea and flowers for Rassilon sakes!) thinking about breasts. And his lips on her …AGKHHHHHH. "Look, you don't need to tell Jack anything."

Taking another step back, Rose reached behind her for the knob on the bathroom door. "Just sit there a moment. Won't take a minute. Just---"

"Rose." He knew it sounded like desperate begging. He didn't need Jack right now. He didn't want Jack—oh hell. Hell hell hell. It was like trying not to think of the pink elephant at this point.

Slowly turning the knob, she cracked it open, caught between wanting to dash off for help and trying to keep him calm. "It's just Jack. He knows more about this stuff. If there's something seriously wrong, Jack'll know what to do." She bit her cheek, staring at the washcloth, which was covered in blood.

The Doctor looked down at it. The wound wasn't completely cleaned; otherwise it would have stopped on its own. There must be some other piece of debris in there. "I—look. Jack can't help me. And I'm sure he told you why. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm like this." Wanting to crush you up against that door and—

Letting go of the door handle, Rose reached for a hand towel and wrapped it around the cloth already on his hand. She claimed she didn't know anything about first aid, but she'd done that correctly. Anyone else would have removed the already soaked rag and replaced it with a clean one. She'd somehow vicariously picked up proper first aid.

It really did just make him want her more.

Hell, dammit, hell, shit, hell… he was losing it. He was cracking up, right here, right in front of her.

If she properly adjusted the chin on Recussi-Annie before pinching the nose and breathing into the rubber CPR training doll, he'd probably have another mess in his pants. As it was, he was sitting forward so far he was about to fall off the ceramic seat lid trying to hide just how much he appreciated her ability to properly apply pressure to a wound. "No, no. Go get Jack."

This way he could make a break for it. He could go scurry off and lick his wounds in private, and he wouldn't have to deal with her knowing what a broken and intrinsically flawed individual he was, that he couldn't even handle a…shop accident without wanting to do wholly inappropriate things to Rose, who, thanks to Jack, knew just how much of a demented old pervert he was.

Why was she still standing there?

She was hesitating. The toe of her shoe dug into the floor as she twisted her ankle, trying to somehow fill the silence with that action. "Is this about what Jack and I talked about? Is that why you don't want me to get him?"

Oh hell, of course he couldn't just rely on Jack to try to scare the living hell out of him by telling him he'd told Rose about this whole…biological predicament. No, Jack had to go and actually TELL her. "Rose, I'm sorry. Jack wasn't supposed to tell you any of that. He—look, it's just my problem, ok? It's nothing you have to worry about. I'm going to find some way of solving the problem that doesn't involve--" knocking all of your stupid beauty implements off that counter and making you scream for God and mean me. Shit. He couldn't even finish a thought, much less a sentence, without being interrupted by thoughts of what he'd like to do… and there he went again.

There was an intensity about her as she looked from the towel to the Doctor's eyes, trying to figure out the Doctor's urgency. "Look, it's just a cut on your hand. Jack knows medical stuff, right?"

The desire to plunge his fist into Jack's chest and rip out the man's heart got him to his feet. "Jack's full of shi--" Of course, his desire to do plunging of a different kind caused him to sit back down. "Just—Rose—I'm sorry…" A whole thought. He just wanted to have one whole thought that wasn't interrupted.

Rose bit her bottom lip, worry darkening her eyes and making her look somewhat sad. "Sorry for what?"

Just one thought that didn't involve her. That was all he was asking for. "For bleeding all over your shirt, and not staying in the galley while you were baking and not letting you help me fix the TARDIS and almost getting you killed six times a week. For whatever Jack told you. For being me. For—for wanting to make you scream for God and mean me. For--" He stopped suddenly when he heard the breath catch in her throat. "I—I'm sorry." He hung his head in shame. "It's…it's biological. I want to—I have to—repopulate--" Coherency was lost to him. He bowed his head, looking down at his hand-wrapped towel in shame. "I'm sorry for wanting you the way I do."

Her breath hitched again, and he knew he'd said the wrong thing. Idiot. Could him saying anything have been the right thing to say in this circumstance? He wished she'd have just let him bleed to death. It would have saved him the embarrassment.

And then something entirely unexpected happened.

Not her asking to leave the ship—he was prepared for that. Or for her to slap him in a manner reminiscent of her mother, for being a dirty old man.

No. Rose Tyler, human Earth female and object of his obsession began laughing at him. It started as a giggle and erupted into full belly laughter about three seconds after that. 

He frowned with indignation, watching her double over. "Oi, I'm making a painful self-admission here!" This would have been easier if she'd have slapped him.

Tears were streaming down her face when she looked up at him, cheeks and forehead ruddy with the force of her laughs. "Oh god. We need to get you medical attention." Head tipping back with unspilled mirth, she let out another howl. Opening the door, she glanced back him. "But seriously—about what Jack and I talked about—if you want him, just say something. God. Did you hit your head, too? For a minute there it sounded like you wanted to shag me."

Somewhere between anger and humiliation and relief, the Doctor closed his eyes and shook his head. Jack really had to die. He meant it this time. For real.

TBC?


	6. Chapter 6

Unfortunately, thought the Doctor, as he stared up at the impossibly white, bright medlab ceiling, killing Jack wouldn't fix anything now. Rose was going to catch on that this wasn't about wanting Jack in any way shape or form. There was only one way to allay suspicion, and sadly skinning Jack alive and turning his hide into lampshades was not the solution. Nor was hanging him with his own intestines. Funny—but wouldn't solve his problem.

No. There was only one solution that he could think of.

He had no choice. He had to have sex with Jack.

Then Rose wouldn't suspect a thing…

The person he least wanted to deal with in all of the known and unknown universes swam into view. "What the hell do you want?" the Doctor sniped.

Jack grinned down at him, grabbing his torn-up hand. "Rose made me promise to check on you." He unwrapped the bandage, looking own at the perfectly healed appendage. "And…I was wondering how much longer we'd be sulking in here."

Frowning, the Doctor looked past Jack, to the ceiling again, hoping it would blind him. "Until I can somehow swallow the urge to super glue every orifice of your body together and wait until you explode."

Stepping back, out of his line of sight, Jack chuckled. "Ok, so not for a while yet." He gave the Doctor's shoulder a quick pat. "I'll tell her you're resting after your 'ordeal.' How's that?"

Clenching his eyes shut, the Doctor took several deep breaths before responding. "Tell her—don't tell her anything. Every time you open your mouth, I am the one that ends up deeper in this hole."

Jack shuffled his feet around a bit, backing toward the medlab door. Good, the stupid Time Agent knew what was good for him. And right now—distance from the Doctor was very good for him. "Alright, alright."

Before the Doctor could ask just what Jack meant by that weird sort of concession and ascent, the door closed and the Doctor was left alone with his thoughts. Things had been at least better the last half hour or so. A lot of aloneness and quietness and deep, steady breathing had reined in his hearts; they were no longer drumming in his ears and Rose was no longer his every thought.

She'd been reduced back to his every third thought, which left him two thoughts in every rotation to try and figure out some way out of his mess. If he could manage to get through this without having to sleep with Jack, that'd be lovely. More important, was fixing the long-term issue of needing Rose so desperately. Having that third thought back would be very nice. He could use it to solve the Eqleroyium Conundrum, revise universal Relim theory for sixty-four dimensions and possibly figure out what the hell he'd done with the egg timer.

Having possession of his thoughts would be nice. Even better would be control over his body. Even when his mind was on something else, his body kept doing it's own thing, with this whole wanting Rose Tyler business.

Was there something wrong with him wanting to carry on as he always had? What was so terrible about that? Nine hundred years of not propagating the species and not shagging companions rotten, and he'd grown quite used to it, thankyouverymuch. He could safely live the rest of this life (and all his remaining regenerations) without ever again fantasising about ramming his companion up against the nearest wall, crushing her lips with his and discovering just how human female underthings came undone…with his teeth.

Groaning with discomfort, he shifted slightly.

"Are you ok?"

Turning his head away from her, the Doctor didn't respond.

She'd come up next to him, waiting for his answer. It was agonizing. He could smell her. She smelled like herbal shampoo, lip gloss and, well, Rose. It tingled in his nasal passages, hurting his brain. "Jack said--"

The Doctor's head snapped around to glare at her. "Jack says a lot of things. Jack is going to find himself getting a mafia send off if he doesn't watch it."

OH HELL. He'd just said that out loud, hadn't he? He'd been hoping to keep that whole desire to make Jack eat his own internal organs from Rose just as much as he wanted to keep just how much he wanted to…do things to her that were, in his mind, equally perverse. Especially that one thing, where he wanted to taste every last bit of her, and have her recipro—

Everything just had to revolve around making her scream for God and mean him, didn't it?

"Don't be mad at Jack."

Still lying on the medical cot, he folded his arms over his chest, no longer mindful of his hand. "I'll be just as mad at Jack as I please."

She untucked his bandaged hand from beneath his arm and pulled back the cloth, inspecting it. Her smooth thumb ran over the newly healed flesh, causing a shudder to run up through him. "Does it hurt?"

He licked his lips, staring up at the ceiling again. "No."

A sensible man who was trying not to be affected by the woman he wanted to make squeal and buck and moan would have pulled his hand away. So, of course, the Doctor left his hand inside hers. And she, not knowing the fire she ignited, continued to massage his flesh with her little opposable ape-thumb. "So then why're you laying in here, pouting?"

Damn her perceptive powers. "I'm not pouting, I'm just…resting."

She slid her thumb away from his skin and he instantly felt a pain of regret. He shouldn't have said something else. He should have admitted to pouting, tantruming and anything else that she accused him of, if only to keep that tiny bit of contact with her skin.

"Ouch!" he yelped when she ripped the bandage away from his skin, the tape removing valuable hand-hair as well.

Balling up the now-unneeded remnants, she nudged his shoulder. "Baby. Now, if you're all better, why don't you get yourself put back together, and I'll make ya some tea."

The Doctor wanted to make some clever comeback. But he had none. "We don't have a kettle any more," he whined, still staring up at the lights. He didn't want tea or coffee or hot cocoa, or any of that other stuff he'd been perfectly miffed over not having this morning. What he wanted was currently rubbing his hand in a manner that was destined to kill him slowly.

She sighed like a mother running out of patience with a small child. "You know, people did manage to heat water before the invention of the kettle. 'Least that's what my grandmother tells me."

"I don't like water boiled in pots. It tastes funny." He refused to look at her. He could sense her tongue running over her teeth and could smell her fruity lip-gloss. It probably tasted like bananas and strawberries and would be completely delectable if he just sucked upon her lower lip…

She snorted. "Uh huh. Because water heated in old iron pots is so much different to your delicate alien taste buds than water heated in an old iron kettle."

Resolve vanished in a flash, and he met her eyes. They were warm and melty like fresh-baked chocolate chips and it made him want to devour her whole. Great. Not only did he have an obsession with her, but it was devolving into an obsession with food. Life was over. "Now you're getting it."

She slapped his shoulder. "That's it. I've had enough. Get up. Enough pouting over Jack."

"I'm not pouting over--" he began defensively, and then came to a screeching halt. "Never mind. You have me. I'm pouting over Jack." Oh Rassilon. That was something he never thought he'd find himself saying, and quite frankly never wanted to say again. Life was cruel.

Grabbing his hands, Rose began tugging him to a sitting position. "What'd I tell ya? Just say something. It isn't like he doesn't already know."

Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, he looked her in the eye intensely, trying to find the hidden meaning in this conversation. It was killing him, slowly.

"What?" she asked finally, standing a few inches away from him, her hands still wrapped around his.

He could smell the lip gloss, the petroleum and the fake produce…He had to clench his teeth for a moment to resist the urge to just kiss those full, fruity lips. "And you're not bothered by this?"

Dammit. She was giving him just the out he'd been contemplating needing moments before. If she thought his attentions lay in Jack's direction, then they weren't pointed at her, and that was good, right? "Why would I be bothered?"

All the blood rushed to the Doctor's head, the sound pounding behind his eardrums and everything exploded in a fiery white light of…something. Jealousy, anger, hate, desire… "Well, you should!" he spat in her face before he could stop himself.

Her eyes narrowed as she leapt back away from him, and he knew he was two seconds away from getting a slap. "Well, I'm NOT bothered, just because YOU are bothered that you have…feelings that're stupid ape feelings. So if you want me to be bothered, well, I'm just not going to give you the satisfaction!"

Sliding off the cot, he threw his hands up in the air, and began pacing the length of the medical lab. "Well, fine! I don't want you to be bothered anyway! And who said they're stupid little ape feelings anyway? This isn't stupid ape feelings! I don't have feelings! I don't need feelings! It's—it's—it's biology and evolution and-damn the Time Lords! Damn every single last one of them because this is their entire fault! They do genetic tampering for ten millennia, and they forget to get rid of this one stupid stinking lousy infinitesimal protein that makes me want to shag you rotten! Rassilon's ghost!" He turned, still ignoring her. "Of course, knowing those stuck-up arrogant bastards, they added that gene back in just for me, because they hate me. They've always hated me. 'Oh we don't like you because you aren't a stuffy old codger like the rest of us…here, go do our dirty work. Go back a million years and destroy the Daleks. Go to this planet and sort the mess we made with the locals by our idiotic policy of non-interference…kill us all to end the Time War! Oh yeah, by the way, we've genetically made you predisposed to need to shag pretty young girls named Rose Tyler to perpetuate the species.' Bastards! The whole lot of them, they can just go to hell and die—die AGAIN! Dying once wasn't good enough! And then there's Jack, who's helping by hurting, which seems to be the only way he's capable of helping, and then you don't even have the decency to be bothered if he tells you I'm 'into' him, which I am most certainly not, unless we're talking about all the millions of ways I now want to KILL HIM! Damned Time Lords! I hate them all!"

He looked up at Rose, who had backed all the way to the door, hands pressed against it to make an escape, eyes wide and jaw hanging open.

Blood pounding in his ears, the world seemed to go hazy and red with the force of what had exploded in his mind. Everything was thick, the air tasted of humidity and his own rage, so much so that he finally couldn't smell her lip balm. Thank the skies for small favours, he supposed. "WHAT?" he asked her finally, breaking the tenuous silence that had built up over the last few moments.

Rose blinked once, finally focusing back on him, instead of wherever she'd gone, which had been a million miles away. "HUH?"

Shoulders slumping in defeat, the Doctor drew in ragged breaths. Clenching his eyes shut, he cursed his continued existence. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

To Be Concluded…

5


	7. Chapter 7

Just forget I said anything. The Doctor wondered if it was possible to be any stupider and say anything more…IDIOTIC than 'forget I said anything.'

And it wasn't like he could storm out of the room and go throw himself out an airlock (after pushing Jack out first, of course), because Rose was standing there, hands pressed against the door, leaning upon the cold metal like it would somehow save her. Those plump little lips of hers were parted, perhaps in surprise, perhaps in disgust, and her clumpy-thick eyelashes beat continually against her cheeks as she blinked rapidly, probably thinking she was trapped in the medical bay with a madman.

Well, she was. And also trapped with an idiot. Had he mentioned how much of an idiot he was?

She licked her lips (oh it was killing him!) and drew in a deep breath, daring to meet his eyes. "So."

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets in an effort to hide his fidgeting. "Yeah."

Her face became unreadable suddenly. He hated that. He was the only one allowed to be mysterious on this ship. "Just forget you said all that stuff." Well, when she said it like that, he had a feeling it would be about as effective as when he told her to forget him, to go home and eat beans on toast and watch television. He saw how THAT suggestion had turned out.

The heel of his shoe began digging into the immaculate white tile floor uncomfortably. "If you would be so kind as to."

Nodding, she smacked her lips together. "Right. Which part of that soliloquy? The part where you want to kill Jack, the part where you want to resurrect your people so that you can kill them again, or the part where you want to, and please stop me if I'm not getting this right, shag me rotten?"

The Doctor wiped a hand over his face, unable to even look at her any longer. "That last bit, if we could." Keeping his eyes clenched shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if there was a way for this to get any worse. 

Of course, with him, that was like an open invitation for 'worse' to drop on his doorstep, because a second later, he heard shifting, and then unzipping. Peeking past his fingers, he saw Rose sliding out of her jacket and dropping it neatly onto the floor beside her. "What are you doing?" Please just be too warm in here, he thought desperately.

Unbuckling the belt from her jeans, she pulled it free of the loops and tossed it on top of the ugly red Phish jacket. "I believe Jack calls this the medicinal lay?"

When she began tugging her shirt free from her jeans, he took a step backward. The backs of his legs slammed into the cot and he landed on it with a violent thud. "Rose, I don't think you quite understand…it's not about sex, it's—it's…" Oh great big flying, flaming, shitting bloody hell.

Tugging the shirt above her stomach, she stopped right below her breasts. He wasn't sure if she was pausing in thought, or just to antagonize him. Possibly both. "It's about the biological need to propagate the species. I know, I know. I just want you to promise me one thing." She pulled the shirt over her head, and in a very un-Rose-like act that made him contemplate the need to check for pods, she began folding it. Folding it neatly, like something off of a display in a shop. "When we were sixteen, my mate Angie got….well, knocked up, and Eddie Willard, the slimy little bastard, just disappeared and never took any responsibility."

The bra was bright pink and lacy and… so very Rose. He had to look away. When that wasn't enough, because he could still see it out of the corner of his eye, he clenched them shut again. "Rose, I'd never—ROSE." At first he was appalled that she'd suggest that he'd do such a thing. Then he was appalled that she'd suggest that…well, THEY do such a thing. And thirdly, he was appalled that she seemed so OK with it. "Look, Rose, I appreciate the offer, but… I'll find some way around it. I'll think of something."

A small chuckle erupted from her, and he noted that she was standing so much closer to him now. She rested her bare arm on his shoulder, the back of her fingers affectionately brushing against his neck. "Well, Jack says he refuses to carry your alien baby because the last time he did that for someone it shot his figure straight to hell. So I seem to be the only other available candidate, and the only person named Rose Tyler whom you want to shag rotten on this ship. Convenient, huh?"

Refusing to look didn't do him any good—he was obviously the weak-willed sort because he peaked with one eye and basically got a face full of…funbags. They were round and pert and practically spilling out the top of the bra…like mounds of bread dough he just wanted to…

Practically yelping in alarm, he slid down the cot and away from her, then got up, trying to put distance between them. "Rose, this isn't—I don't want—I mean, I want. What I'm trying to say is….hell. I don't think you should—should do this. Just to…to…"

She was walking towards him again, that grin plastered across her face—that damned evil, EVIL grin and that naughty little vipers tongue tucked between her teeth. "Just to what? Help out my best mate? Take one for the team? It's not like it's going to be a huge burden, so don't get all… quiet and moody about that."

Reaching behind her with both arms, she began tugging on the bra. He held out a hand. "No! Don't!" He wouldn't be able to stand it. Rassilon—now HE was trapped in here with a madwoman. "I—I—I—I…" he sputtered, trying to think of something. Brain no longer functioning, reason centres shutting down. "I don't—not like this. I don't want it to be like this."

He was so proud of himself for working out something mildly logical and moderately coherent. When she dropped her hands from behind her back, he was even happier that it had been effective. Of course, the moment she licked her lips in that slow, seductive way, he was back to being terrified right out of what remained of his tortured mind. "So you wanna do it for me?" Rose's grin made him shiver with anticipation as much as fear, making him back further against the counter, knocking equipment onto the floor with a series of clatters and clangs. "I like that."

With nowhere to go, she pressed her soft, terribly naked stomach against him, hip firmly holding him in place. It was a dream come true and a living nightmare all in one glorious instant, even with their jeans still between them.

He licked his dry lips, leaning back against the counter, trying to put some distance between himself and those—those rising mounds of bread dough that he just wanted to kneed, and kneed… "Ro-Rose."

She took both of his hands, which had been clutching the counter behind him for dear life, and placed them upon her hips, resting them on the bare flesh curving inwards at the top of her jeans. "I think you think too much. And I KNOW you talk too much."

The Doctor tried to pull his hands away, but she was holding them firmly in place. "I can't do this, Rose."

"But you want to do this," she pointed out with a self-assurance that made him feel…used. As used as he was trying to keep her from feeling.

Drawing in a shuddery breath, he tried not to take in the scent of her lip-gloss and soap. "Want has nothing to do with it," he gasped, refusing to look down at her chest. Well, refusing to look down at her, full stop. That particular path lead to madness.

Tongue running across her teeth again, she looked like a wild animal going in for the kill. "Ok. Then. We won't do this."

He let out a sigh of relief.

Her eyebrows arched upward, and he knew he'd been counting his chickens before they were hatched. OH, such a bad phrase for this moment. "If you can tell me you don't care about me. With a straight face. Because I know you want me," her eyes flickered downward, past his belt. "So that isn't in question."

Oh. Bloody. Hell.

And there was no escape. No place to run, no nice way to say this… ok, he'd try to say it anyway. "You—you know I care about you as—as a friend. Right? It's like this--"

There was a knock at the med lab door. Bless Jack Harkness, whom he was going to kiss out of gratitude at the nearest opportunity for providing this distraction. "Everything alright in there?"

"No!" the Doctor yelped, just as Rose was hollering yes.

There was a muffled chuckle on the other side of the door. "Good. So, Rose. On a scale of one to ten…"

Nope. He was back to wanting to kill Jack. Brain him to death with the now-defunct cast-iron kettle, perhaps.

Rose scowled at the still-closed door. "We aren't that far yet!"

"Sorry! Carry on!"

The Doctor used the opportunity to wriggle his hands away from Rose, and went back to gripping the counter as though it were the only life raft on a sinking ship. "You know," he said peevishly, trying to pull himself away from Half-Naked Rose(r) "I don't think I like how this is going. I think you're in on this with Jack."

This whole thing… it was killing him. He wanted to run very far away. He also wanted to grab her arms and spin her around and see just how much she enjoyed being his captive. And there was that whole screaming for God and meaning him thing that he was, quite frankly, overly-obsessed with.

Puffing out her chest (funbags! Damn Jack for getting that word into his head—now he'd never get it out) she reached out and grabbed his jumper, pulling him back towards her. "Now, I think you had something to tell me…" Her hand brushed his stomach and she began pulling the jumper upward. "You know what you can say to make it all stop."

He had no idea what sound that was, when her fingers slid past the waist of his jeans, but he didn't squeal like a little girl. That would be unseemly and unbecoming of a lord of time. He'd go to his death avowing that.

Epilogue…

The Doctor stood outside the kitchen, not knowing if he could bring himself to go inside.

Beyond the doorway, he could hear an innocent sucking slurping, and he just knew Rose was eating strawberries. She always managed to make such a mess.

A few dishes clanked and there was the hiss of bacon in a frying pan. "No, Rose. A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. A lady's under no such obligations."

Laughing around what the Doctor was sure was a mouth full of strawberries, he heard her slurp again. "You're killing me," she mumbled past the food, then swallowed. "You always have to have an answer for everything, don't you!"

The pan hissed again and the smell of fresh fried pig fat wafted past him, antagonizing his nose and stomach. "Yup. That's me. So."

Rose groaned and shifted, he could hear fabric sliding against the wooden chair she had claimed as her favorite. "To answer your questions: yes, yes, no, and yes. Twelve out of ten—he got the two bonus questions right, and yes."

Did he even want to know?

Metal scraped against the iron pan and the hissing stopped. "Ahh. It warms this former Time Agent's sad, jaded heart. And you have a plan in place?"

"Jack--"

"I'm just thinking of you, sweetheart. I don't want to have to go through this all over again if he didn't hit the jackpot first time around."

Rose started laughing. "Jackpot? Isn't that a nice word for it! And when we hit the 'jackpot,' he can be the one to tell my mum. Oh that'd be lovely." She made a slapping sound, hand against some exposed piece of flesh. Great. Jackie Tyler. Something else he hadn't thought of when he was busy being lead around by certain parts of his anatomy last night. "It'll be like that. Only he might be beheaded from the force of it all."

Both occupants of the kitchen laughed uncontrollably.

The Doctor had been prepared to come into the kitchen and inform them that the ship had finally decided to drop out of the Vortex, right into feudal Japan, just like he'd promised. Instead, he began beating his head repeatedly against the metal wall.

THE END.


End file.
